


Chemical-Scented Sheets

by rabexxpaulson, TheFandomLesbian



Series: Spencer's Raulson One-Shots [56]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hotgomery - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, betaread, come suffer with us, cowritten, raulson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabexxpaulson/pseuds/rabexxpaulson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFandomLesbian/pseuds/TheFandomLesbian
Summary: In the middle of a business trip, Billie Dean realizes that perhaps leaving her dead girlfriend wasn't a good idea.
Relationships: Billie Dean Howard/Nora Montgomery, Nora Montgomery & Tate Langdon
Series: Spencer's Raulson One-Shots [56]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1214643
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	Chemical-Scented Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> For a dialogue prompt sent by Tevos, on Tumblr: "Are you afraid of me?" 
> 
> This is our first one shot written together! Prompts are gladly accepted.

Perhaps accepting a job that required her to be out of the state for a whole week wasn’t a good idea in the first place, Billie Dean had realized. Locked in the bathroom of the infamous Amityville house, her fingertips typed frantically at the letters on her phone, trying to get in touch with her girlfriend. 

_Billie: Nora, are you alright?_

_Billie: Nora, sugarcube, please call me._

_Billie: I’ve been calling you since yesterday, please call me as soon as you can._

Sighing, Billie was forced to step out of the bathroom and back to production as her manager called for her _again._ At least that wasn’t another scam, for she could really feel the energy in the house, spirits screaming for help and begging to be set free. 

When Nora came to, she shivered in an unfamiliar room, lifting her hand to her trembling lips. “This is all wrong,” she whispered. Someone had been here. She couldn’t remember who. Someone was _supposed_ to be here… Why? She didn’t know. Her fingers shivered in the room as if with a chill, a balled up white handkerchief in her hand. She always awoke in the basement. She was always rocking the crib. She always cradled that tattered, dirty baby blanket that had lost its color nearly a century ago and blew the mothballs from its surface. 

This room was _wrong_ . The ornate wallpaper Charles had chosen for her was gone, painted a pale yellow, and wall hangings scattered the wallboards. Some were in frames, others just hastily pinned in place. There was her—that one was familiar, her headshot. But the others were not. There was a woman. She recognized that woman. Tears budded up in her eyes. _Who is she?_ She couldn’t remember. The silken bed sheets were not moth-eaten or frayed. They were new and smelled of chemicals wrapped in plastic, much like the new world. 

The new world. Nora felt she had touched it before. Her brain kept skipping like a record. _Where is Thaddeus?_ She liked to keep him near. She liked him to touch no one. She liked to keep him to herself, to keep him safe, to keep others safe. Why was she up here and not with Thaddeus? How could she leave? She couldn’t remember. Was she still in her home? “This is all wrong!” Her voice shot up the octave as tears welled in her eyes. Flinging herself from the bed, she dashed to the window. There was no dust on the windowsill. Someone had been here recently. Someone had left her here alone, had left her in mourning. “Why can’t I remember?” she wept. The back of her skull ached. She could not see her reflection in the window. Abdomen aching, Nora sank in grief. 

The slender glass cuboid on the bed buzzed. “Billie Dean,” a woman’s voice announced, and then it followed by playing a song. Nora shrieked. Terror swelled inside of her. She took the glass box into her hand. On its face, a picture of a woman appeared, the same woman on her wall. “Who are you? Leave me alone!” The vibrations in her hand stirred her. She dashed it against the ledge of the windowsill once, twice, thrice, glass pieces bursting out in various directions and landing on the hardwood floor. When it stopped making noise, she staggered back from it, tripping over a gorgeous pink and brown striped area rug—something her home never would have seen in the days before. Crumbling in grief, she folded herself onto the rug, grasping at its corner and smelling it, as if she could smell anything. 

Tate floated inside. “Nora?” She sobbed pathetically into the rug. “We all can hear you screaming downstairs.” She was inconsolable. He knelt beside her and placed his arms around her waist. “It’s because she left, isn’t it? I told her she shouldn’t leave. I told her.” Fury quaked inside of him, but it didn’t stop him from gingerly working the handkerchief out of her hand and using it to wipe at her cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” 

Her folded pink cheeks glared up at Tate, eyes bloodshot and distraught. “Who are you? Who is she? Why did she leave me?” she wailed. Her fist found the front of Tate’s shirt and clung there. “Don’t leave me,” she begged, “don’t leave me like she did! I want my son!” 

“We’ll get you there. Come on, come with me, let’s go downstairs.” Tate lifted her up, and she leaned heavily on him, bawling mercilessly into the armpit of his shirt. “And once she comes back, we’ll make sure she never leaves again.” Nora did not notice or did not mind the dark tone to his voice, for he was here and smelled nice and made her feel safe, made her feel like the mother she had never had the chance to become. 

...

Filming the rest of the day was a mistake. Billie was certainly glad they could get the necessary shots and actually find the real deal, but her mind was far away from the task at hand. She knew Nora couldn't hurt herself—at least not physically, but mentally was another story. She knew her girlfriend had a history, to put it that way, and she had felt the wound as she stroked blonde hair in the nights they cuddled, but she never really had the chance to understand what it did to her. Tate had explained, tried to at least, but Billie Dean found it too rambling and didn’t quite get it. 

”It’s a wrap for today!” the director finally yelled after what seemed to be days of filming at the same dusty living room. Billie couldn't count if she wanted the number of times she had sneezed during each take. _Damn allergies._ She sighed and stormed to her dressing room, eagerly kicking her heels off while reaching for her phone. No notifications from Nora. Her stomach twirled both from hunger and worry. Had she not been wearing acrylic nails, she would have been biting them until there was nothing left. _There is something wrong._ Nora had been answering her nearly right away for the past four days she had been out, and she even promised that she wouldn't lose her phone out of sight. Billie’s mind crowded more with worry as she analyzed the situation more and more, eyes glued onto nothing as she nibbled on her lower lip. ”Happy hour!” somebody yelled from the other room, and she snapped back to herself and began grabbing her stuff. She was in no mood for happy hour, which wasn't very usual for her; Billie Dean was fond of alcohol. 

Even though her heels clacked onto the old wooden floor, Billie tried to be discrete. She walked in quick steps to the entrance of the house, desperately trying to avoid anyone from the crew. As she was about to reach her goal—the drivers—she felt a tap on her shoulder. ”Aren’t you coming?”

”I’m really not in the mood for a happy hour, Andy.” Billie resisted the urge to roll her eyes, for it was no one else’s fault that her dead girlfriend wouldn't answer the phone. ”My head is pounding, I just want to get some sleep.” For such a dark show, the crew balanced it well with its cheer spirit. The answer was clearly not what Andy was expecting, and his face lightened with confusion. 

”Y _ou_ are not in the mood for a happy hour?” This time, she rolled her eyes. ”That headache must be a really strong one, huh?”

”Happens, ” Billie offered a quick smile before turning around to follow her path. She was annoyed. Everything was annoying. _His grandma never forgave him for stealing that money._ Getting into one of the cars, she gave the driver her hotel’s address and tried calling Nora again. Nothing, and this time it didn’t even rang. _Did she turn it off? Is she mad at me? Did someone steal it?_ The only thing that quieted her nerves was knowing no one could harm Nora. Quite literally. 

After half an hour of driving to the hotel, all Billie wanted was to take a warm shower and change from the uncomfortable clothes. And it was exactly what she did when she got into her bedroom. Hotel showers were the best, and Billie warmed the water so much she stepped out all blotchy and red. Once she had changed to her nightgown, she jumped in bed with a bag of nuts and munched on them while watching nothing in particular on the TV. Her head kept on pounding, and she couldn't stop hearing the screams from the house. _I need to rest._ Her head was too loud. Reaching for her headphones, she put on some acoustic songs and closed her eyes, aimlessly munching on the nuts. The music was louder than her thoughts, and it seemed to be the only thing she had found to help. _Nora._ Her mind, however, was more restless than usual today, and her belly flipped again, body restless. Something told her there was something wrong, and if Billie Dean had learned anything, that was to trust her gut. And so she did, with her mind flashing and screaming Nora’s name she was quick to grab her clothes and fold them into a ball before shoving it inside her suitcase. The crew would find it out one way or another, she figured, so she didn't bother messing up with their happy hour. 

The Uber drive seemed to pass faster. Her heels clacked on the pavement of the airport and she didn’t waste any time when following straight to the counter to get a ticket. The next flight was only in half an hour, and it cost her nearly a hundred dollars a seat. _What can I do?_ She paid for it and hastily made her way to the gate, hoping to find a vending machine to end her hunger, for the worry seemed to want to stay. Munching on chips of some kind, Billie boarded the plane and finally allowed herself to relax. Her nails tapped on her phone again, and she decided to send Nora one last message. 

_Billie: I’m going home, sugarcube. I’m worried about you…_

The rhythm of the week took its toll on her, and Billie Dean felt her eyes getting heavy with sleep as they were up in the air, lights dim and voices low. She was beat, and she only woke up with the unknown and extremely irritating voice coming through the speakers informing them they were landing. It was still dark outside, and she sighed as her eyes struggled to remain open. 

The path to the so-called Murder House seemed different now; more agonizing, darker and colder. Struggling to pull her suitcase along, Billie huffed as she crossed the heavy gates and walked to the big mansion's door; the cries from the place had become familiar to her ears by now, almost making her feel at home. Pushing the door open, her heart skipped a beat. ”Nora?” she called, voice carrying exhaustion and hope and concern all at once. ”Nora, it’s me.” 

Nora rocked anxiously back and forth in her rocking chair, grasping the threadbare, colorless baby blanket. It had been blue, once, like her eyes, like Thaddeus’s eyes, but now it was a dirty, off-white, grayish hue. She wept into the blanket. Tate stood beside her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Do you remember now?” he asked. He was trying to help her, but everything he said confused her more. Bit by bit, he built upon her memories, laying the foundation first—Thaddeus was a monster, Charles was dead, she was dead—and then the history. The history was jumbled and out of order. There were two boys. There was a dentist. There was a woman and her teenage daughter and infant son. She did not know their names. 

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked with the bare whisper. She remembered Tate, now. She remembered opening her arms to him and welcoming him into her embrace. She remembered nights when he would cry in his bed and she would sneak upstairs from the basement to join him and comfort in where his own mother fell short. She remembered these nights—they were precious to her. “Someone is calling my name—” Her voice quaked as she looked up at Tate as if in fear. “I hear someone—Is it her?” 

“Do you know who she is?” 

His hands had grown so from the time she had kissed them when he was a boy. It was with these larger hands, the hands of a man, that he caressed her cheeks and wiped the tears from them. She shook her head. “I—I don’t…” She hung her head. “But her voice—It makes me feel so safe…” She closed her eyes, trying to think of what to do. Shivering there in her rocker, she fought to picture a clear face, or even one clear memory, but without the woman in front of her and the sound of her voice, Nora couldn’t quite manage it. “Will she leave again?” 

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t.”

Tate had always made good on his promises to her. She knew this. “Thank you,” she whispered, not truly understanding what he meant to do to her. The woman had left her, and that hurt. She needed her to stay. “I—I should go to her, shouldn’t I? I should go to her, and maybe when I—” Her voice cracked. “—maybe when I see her, I’ll remember.” What if this woman didn’t love her anymore, or was hurt that she’d been forgotten so soon? What if she was angry at Nora for being so forgetful? What if Nora couldn’t remember when she saw her? “I’m afraid,” she confessed to Tate. 

He smiled. He had always had such a charming smile. “I’ll go with you,” he reassured. He held out his arm to her. Nora balled up her handkerchief in her hand and folded the baby blanket neatly across the rickety, broken crib. Sniffling, she kept wiping her teary eyes with the damp, crumpled cloth. She put her arm in his and allowed him to lead her up the stairs. 

At the mouth of the stairs, they emerged. Nora’s blue eyes surveyed the dark room before they landed on Billie Dean’s silhouette. She squinted at the shape. “The woman with the man’s name,” she remembered aloud. “She smells like cinnamon.” Tate’s cold hand covered hers. Nora blinked a few times, but the name wouldn’t quite come to her—she remembered it was masculine, but not in which way. “I—I’m over here,” she called instead with her trembling voice. Tate stood beside her, a tall shadow. 

The way Nora called her didn’t soothe her insides as Billie hoped it would do. Her eyes searched for her desperately in the dim light, and when she looked at the stairs and saw the tall figure next to her frail Nora, her insides found themselves way apart from soothed. She had learned to be around Tate; she had to, after all these years, but she was human and still alive, and she _knew_ what the boy was capable of. “Nora? Sugarcube?” She walked towards the shadows, frowning at the sight of her lover in such a state. _She has been crying for… a while._ “Nora, are you alright? I tried calling you so many times…”

Nora squeezed the handkerchief tightly, and she gradually slipped her hand off of Tate’s arm to approach this woman, her lover, this familiar stranger who stirred the pit of her stomach but whose name she could not recall. She blinked. There was a flash, those brown eyes, bare skin, bare breasts. _Is this a memory?_ She couldn’t focus on it enough to draw it to the surface. Clinging to her hope like a string of Christmas tree lights, she watched the dim bulbs flit on and off, some malfunctioning, some completely broken, others working but only for a limited time with no guarantee for the future. She drew closer to Billie Dean and held up a hand. _She calls me my given name._ That meant she knew her quite well. Her ghostly fingers grazed the side of Billie Dean’s face, relishing in her warmth. Billie Dean was alive. She had lifeblood, and that gave her heat. Nora remembered that she loved Billie Dean’s heat. 

This opened the floodgates. She loved the heat Billie Dean gave her. She loved the way Billie Dean touched her. She loved the sound of her voice. She loved the curve of her lips (and as she thought this, she traced those lips with her thumb). She loved the sparkle in her brown eyes, how they turned the color of stale honey when the sunset filtered through the window and caught them just _so_. These eyes made her understand how once, a lifetime ago, someone had loved her enough to model fixtures after her eyes—when one loved someone like this, their eyes were truly the windows to their soul. 

She recalled in great detail everything she loved about Billie Dean… But she couldn’t remember _why._ Her tongue darted out of her mouth and crossed her chapped lips. “Remind me of your name again, Miss?” she whispered, her voice a bare thing. 

Billie stopped stiff as Nora approached her. She was quick to realize the distress in Nora, and she allowed her cold fingers to graze her skin, not daring to reach for her as she desired. She eyed Tate for a second before looking back at her lover. Her eyes were far away from how they used to be, blue but not familiarly blue. Concern only grew more, and the question brought tears to her eyes and caused her whole body to shiver. _She doesn’t remember me._ Her heart sank. Her world stopped. She was afraid. “I-It’s Billie Dean.” 

The sound of the name echoed in Nora’s mind. _Yes, I know that name._ It matched the portrait on the wall upstairs of the room that was all changed. It matched the image she had seen on that glass cuboid before she had smashed it. “The woman with the man’s name,” she repeated to herself, under her breath, familiarizing herself with the concept. She reviewed it. There was nothing clear about it except her feelings. “You are very important to me,” she said firmly. She couldn’t have answered if Billie Dean asked her _why_ , but she did know that she valued the presence of the woman in front of her. Her voice made her feel safe. Her blood made her feel alive. Her touch granted her something she had not had in over a century. “I… I believe I missed you a great deal.” 

She couldn’t recall the pain, exactly, not to the moment. She had endured so much pain in the years spent in the Murder House. If she tried to quantify all of it, she would merely waste her own time. But it had hurt when she lost everything she knew. It had hurt knowing there was someone she loved whose name, whose face, evaded her memory. She licked her lips again. “You were on the magic glass box. It kept making noise… so I smashed it.” This felt like pertinent information to provide to Billie Dean. If she had appeared on the magic glass box, she probably had something to do with the magic glass box. Nora wanted an explanation. She wanted a hug. She wanted a kiss and a warm snuggle under the chemical-smelling covers of the new bed in the yellow room with the clean windowsill, and she wanted all of this so she could start to remember. 

It was a process, walking her through her memories. Tate knew this process well; he practiced it frequently, and just beyond her, he lingered, fury throbbing off of his person. Nora was so incredibly forgiving—perhaps because her mental state was too frail to hold a grudge effectively. But he was not. Nora had been hurt badly, and he was not prepared to forget that with ease. 

At first, when they met, Billie had found the way Nora described her name to be incredibly annoying and close-minded; now, in the state she was of wondering if the woman she loved even remembered her, it sounded more like a relief. She chuckled softly, wiping away the tears that dared to fall down her cheeks. Billie Dean was no crier, and she carried the title with pride, but when it came to Nora pride was the last thing she was worried about. Her hands ached to reach for the cold body in front of her. ”That w-was your phone… It was me calling,” she explained in a low voice, small and mellow. The energy that radiated from Tate made it hard for her to breathe. _I’m scared_ . She didn't have Nora in the right mind to make Tate stop whatever he planned on doing. She licked her lips nervously, looking down at Nora’s hands; small cuts from the glass of the phone covered them, and this time she didn't hesitate much when gently grabbing them to examine. Her thumbs caressed porcelain, cold and familiar skin with utter care. ”Your hands… Are they hurt?” It was a dumb question; Billie _knew_ Nora couldn't feel pain. 

Nora blinked down at her hands, just noticing them for the first time, more focused on how Billie Dean's touch warmed her skin. She licked her dry, chapped lips. "I…" She tilted her head. "I don't think so," she said thoughtfully. They looked like they should be hurt, but they weren't. Nora felt so much pain in this life, but it occurred to her now that very little of that pain was physical. The only physical pain was her headache, which was leaving her alone right now because Billie Dean was here. "I'm terribly confused… Please forgive me." She didn't want to cry anymore, but her stomach whirled up in a pile of knots. Anxiety plagued her. What if Billie Dean didn't want to be with her anymore? What if she didn't love her anymore? "I think I—I got lost. In time." She could feel Tate's dark eyes on her back, guarding her like an overprotective dog. "Will you leave again?" 

Billie Dean was willing to give Nora all the time she needed to understand what was going on. In her life, she didn’t have much patience, but Nora had earned that from her. Her hands didn’t dare pull away from Nora’s, and her thumb kept on caressing them, relishing in the touch she had missed so much. It was such a mistake, to have left for so long. In five days gone, she had managed to create such a mess in her lover’s head. The question, however, felt like someone had thrown a knife at her stomach, and her eyes overflowed with tears once again, silently running down her cheeks. “I n-never left… I just h-had to work away for a few d-days.” _Leave._ Billie Dean didn’t like that word one bit. She would never _leave_ Nora. 

"But… you were gone." Now Nora was even more confused. Of course Billie Dean had left. She wasn't here, was she? Nora awoke in the yellow room with the clean windowsill alone and she did not recognize the portraits on the walls or the magic glass box. "I don't want you to go again." Tate shuffled nearer to her from behind, shadowing her, not touching her. 

Billie Dean’s body shrank. Her vulnerability wasn’t one to show often, but at the moment she was tired and hurt and she didn’t quite have Nora in the way that kept her sane. She pulled her hands away, hugging herself around the middle. “I-I…” She sniffed, looking down at her heels. The lights kept on flicking, making them look black and purple at the same time. “I h-had to work…” she croaked in a whisper. “I n-need the money t-to keep this house running… to k-keep my house running, too. To eat, a-and to have the chance t-to buy you anything y-you want…” Billie felt like a teenager explaining herself to her parents, trying to make them understand why she needed her independence. 

Ordinarily, Nora would have understood what Billie Dean was saying, but she was confused… She was so confused. She only knew she had been left alone, and she didn't like that. "How…" She struggled to think of a way to phrase the question she wanted to ask. "How long were you gone?" She couldn't remember the year. She couldn't remember how long it had been since she had died, or any moment since. Her voice shivered in the air. How could she be so frail? All she wanted was to be loved… but that was difficult. "I know that—that I care about you," she whispered, "but I can't remember why." How had they come to be together? She needed Billie Dean to remind her, just as Tate had done for her.

A sob wanted to cut through her lips. Billie Dean gulped it back down and quickly wiped her tears away, looking back at the blue eyes she loved so much. Hearing Nora say she cares about her quieted her heart down a little, for she didn’t mind having to explain anything to her as long as she knew they were together. “F-four days,” her voice was still a faint whisper. “W-we talked about it before… I b-bought you the phone—magic glass box, so w-we could talk. I was supposed t-to be away for a week, b-but you wouldn’t answer yesterday and I-I got worried and flew back h-here.” 

"You _flew?_ " Nora asked incredulously. _Is that something people do these days?_ It was merely another thing lost on her memory. She squeezed her handkerchief up into a tight ball. Four days. Four days was all it had taken for her to lose months, years, of memories. A tear rolled down her cheeks. "Are you afraid of me?" she asked. The only love she knew these days was love borne of fear. Why would Billie Dean have come back if she wasn't afraid of something? "Of what might happen if I—if I forget?"

Billie Dean could try to explain the modern world for Nora later, like she had done millions of times before. Right now, she had to focus on what mattered. “Never afraid of you,” she said firmly, lovingly, voice covered in affection and adoration. “Afraid of what can happen i-if you forget… yes. B-but not because I think you c-can hurt me, no… I’m a-afraid you’ll forget what we have, forget w-who I am and h-how much I love you.” She gulped another sob down. 

Blue eyes darted up to Billie Dean’s face and back down over her body. Nora needed time to familiarize herself with this woman again. She wanted to touch more of her, but she didn’t know how much to give. “I… I think we should spend some time together, now. Alone,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Tate. 

His dark eyes made contact with hers. He hesitated, reluctant to leave her side, and then he slowly backed away, gaze not once leaving Nora. “I will return when you need me.” The ominous tone of his voice echoed as he sank through the floor, vanishing from sight. 

To have Tate gone already alleviated something between thirty and forty-five percent of tension in Billie’s body. She liked to put things into numbers, they were practical and they made it easier for her. When his shadow was gone, Billie took a deep breath, watching Nora. She was still wearing the heart shaped medallion Billie had given her. With slightly trembling hands, Billie Dean reached for her own and untucked it away from inside her dress. “L-look.” She showed it to Nora, and then pointed to the one on her chest. “I-it has a picture inside.” She opened hers, showing the old, black and white picture of Nora that she carried everywhere she went to. Billie had ripped the small piece away from one of the Montgomery’s family pictures. 

Nora tilted her head, looking at the medallion. She frowned. “I see.” She didn’t know what to say to Billie Dean, what Billie Dean expected of her. Her eyes were soft and pale. “Can we… go upstairs?” she asked. She wanted to lie in the bed with the chemical smelling sheets and the yellow paint and the clean windowsill. She felt like that room had more relevance to her than the rest of the dilapidated house. 

_I see?_ Billie took a shaky breath, nodding at the question and closing her medallion. She gave it a small squeeze. “Where would you l-like to go?” She reached for her suitcase, trying to figure how she would pull it upstairs in the state she was. 

“Our room,” Nora whispered. “The one… The one with your picture on the wall.” There were other pictures there, too, but she couldn’t remember any of them and they seemed inconsequential compared to the urgency with which she adored Billie Dean. “The paint is yellow… The windowsill is dusted… I like it there.” She didn’t know _why_ she liked it there. Usually, she liked it best in the parts of the house that never changed, mostly her basement and her rocking chair and her empty crib with the torn baby blanket. Tilting her head, she scanned Billie Dean’s face, unable to shake the sense that something was wrong. _Is she upset with me?_ She reached to take Billie Dean’s warm, soft, human hand. 

Billie Dean warmed all over. _Our room._ It was true, that was their room. Billie Dean had bought everything brand new for that room, and it took ages for her to convince Nora to allow her to make the changes. They painted the walls together and settled up the bed there. Nora was the one to choose the sheets, looking up for weeks and being mesmerized by the unending options online. To see Nora so affectionate about that, even if she didn’t remember a thing, gave Billie Dean hope. The feeling was still inside, so not all was lost. She allowed her fingers to wrap around Nora’s and began guiding them upstairs, suitcase on the other hand. “Let’s go, sugarcube,” she said, voice as sweet as honey. 

A quirk appeared between Nora’s eyebrows. “You can just call me my name, you know,” she said somewhat loftily. She didn’t know how fond she was of being compared to a food item. She was not edible—at least, not in a way that she could remember right now. She glided up the steps, her hand clasped loosely in Billie Dean’s, feeling ambivalent with herself, wanting both less and more. “Will you tell me about you?” she asked. That seemed like a good place to start. She wanted to listen to Billie Dean’s heartbeat with her head on her chest and then she wanted to remember as much as she could—maybe not much, but she prayed it was something. 

Billie bit her inner cheek and kept on following Nora. Trying to explain to her that it was a sweet nickname would probably not work right now, and it would only get her hurt. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, struggling to pull the suitcase along. “W-what about me?”

Nora reached for the suitcase at the sound of it bumping along up the stairs. She took it by the handle and helped Billie Dean with its weight. “I… I don’t know.” She couldn’t remember _anything,_ and she wanted to know _everything,_ so she struggled to find a middle ground of the best things to ask first. She knew what she cared about the most, so that was where she started. “Do you have any children?” 

“Thank you,” Billie murmured, eyes wanting to close from how exhausted she was from everything. The question caused them to shoot wide open. “ _Children?_ ” It was an incredulous question to her, and she had to remember herself that Nora didn’t mean bad. Not everyone was so against children as she was. “N-no… no children.”

Billie Dean sounded irate with the way she repeated the question back at Nora, who thought it was a perfectly normal thing to ask a woman of Billie Dean’s age. _You better get on that,_ she would have replied ordinarily. _You’re not getting any younger._ But she sensed this was perhaps a bit of a rough topic for her to broach, so instead, she gave a muted, “Oh,” and allowed the subject to fall to the side. Was Billie Dean married? She didn’t dare ask; she feared it would cause her to die a second brokenhearted death. She paused at the entrance to their yellow room. “Why do you come to see me?” 

The room remained the same way it was when Billie had last seen it, let alone the folded rug and the shattered pieces of glass all over it. She took another deep breath as they stopped at the door, heart beating a little faster from the small physical activity. _I’m gonna die of a heart attack._ “Because I love you.” The answer, perhaps too forward for the state they were in, was the only one possible. It was hard, at the beginning, for Billie to stay too long inside the house; it was too loud. But now she was used to it, she had to be. 

This didn’t really answer Nora’s question. She, too, loved Billie Dean—that was something she knew and could recall quite vividly. Anything that evoked emotion inside of her was something worth remembering. But she couldn’t remember why. What had led them here? Had Billie Dean sought her out? Had she lived in the house once and somehow survived to leave? Why would she keep coming back? “But why?” she asked. “Why me?” 

That was a question Billie Dean could never find an answer. Why Nora? Well, for the same reason she had her gift, for the same reason she was called Billie Dean, for the same reason the sky was blue. It simply was that way. “We don’t choose who we fall for.” She sniffed the last of her tears back.

“You’re not an unattractive woman,” Nora said, which in nicer terms would have been her calling Billie Dean beautiful. “You could have any woman or man you desire…” She closed the door to the yellow room, as if it would do any good to block anyone from entering, and then she drew back the covers that still smelled like chemicals and plastic wrap. Homemade sheets and blankets smelled better, but these were what she had shared with Billie Dean, so they were what she cherished. “Why did you come here?” she asked as she sat on the bed. 

The lack of any homophobic comment or indignation already proved to Billie Dean not everything was lost. She made her way to the bed, kicking her shoes off and sitting down in front of Nora. Her eyes burned from being so tired, and she was starting to see things faded. “I first came here years ago… Constance Langdon is a friend of mine. We met two years ago. I was helping a family in particular, the one with the teenage girl,” she managed to explain things calmly, now. “I have a gift… I can communicate with the dead, hear and feel and see them. I’m no ordinary woman, Nora.”

Nora blinked. Now she was skeptical. “But everyone can see the dead in this house.” She thought she remembered that. Tate had seen her when he was alive, and he had been an ordinary boy in every way before he had died… Or so she remembered, anyway. She could only remember when he helped her, so perhaps he chose for her to see him through rose-tinted glasses. But she didn’t mind. She adored him, regardless. 

“Only when the dead desired to be seen,” Billie corrected softly, gently. She didn’t have a choice. She never did. She felt and saw things her whole life, the cracks on the walls spoke way louder to her. 

Frowning, Nora considered. She couldn’t remember if she had ever intentionally hidden from the living, if she had that capability or not. “The family,” she remembered, thinking aloud, “did they die here?” There was a family here. She couldn’t recall how long they had been here… But she did remember their baby. She had tried to care for their baby, but the baby wanted its mother, and no matter how much she wanted to be, she could never fill that role. 

Billie nodded. “They did… they had a—a baby.” That last part she wondered if she should or shouldn’t have said. She knew how much Nora wanted a baby, longed for one. But she needed the whole truth. “They also had a teenage daughter… the one Tate loves… or pretends he does, anyways.” She would never put her hand in the fire for him. 

“I know their baby… He doesn’t like me.” Nora didn’t like to think too much of the whiny little creature who would never age. She was jealous and she was guilty. She stared down at the floor. “Tate loves the girl,” she said. “Tate loves many things… perhaps too much.” She knew this. She had only ever gotten the chance to raise one child, and someone else had soiled him for her. Someone else had made him angry and hateful and violent. But she still knew the frightened little boy who had given her a hug and cried into her chest at night when no one else would love him in the way he deserved. _It takes a village,_ Nora knew, and everyone else in Tate’s village had fostered him with hatred and condemnation. “I was happy when he was small,” she remembered. “When his family lived here… I remembered almost all the time.” She had needed someone to need her so desperately. “I wish I could have been enough for him.” 

Billie couldn’t stop herself before she rolled her eyes. She didn’t think she would ever be able to trust Tate, especially after everything she had seen. Constance wasn’t the best, either. Nora’s last words, however, caused her heart to tighten up. “It was not your fault, Nora.” She reached for her hand and caressed it. “Never your fault… if anything, all the good you see on him is there because of you.” Billie couldn’t really see that good, but she knew Nora did and that was what mattered. “ _You_ are his mother.”

“But you don’t like him,” Nora said quietly, like a question, peeking over at Billie Dean as she said the words. 

Billie Dean nearly groaned to herself. She bit her inner cheek and decided to think before she spoke any nonsense. “It’s not that I don’t like him… I don’t trust him…”

Nora considered these words for a moment, mulling them over. Tate didn’t exactly have a track record for being trustworthy for the living. She had raised Tate—he had bonded with her. He would do nothing to hurt her, and Nora trusted him for this. But, if she were alive, would she feel the same way? She wasn’t entirely sure. “He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you,” she reassured. “You make me happy, and he likes it when I’m happy.” 

“You’re not happy now…” Billie’s eyes filled with tears again, and she cursed herself internally. _Stop with that!_

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” Nora said simply, “so he wouldn’t hurt you. That wouldn’t make any sense. He knows hurting you would hurt me. You’re safe.” 

Offering a small smile, Billie looked down at her hands and softly squeezed Nora’s again. “I missed y-you…” It was true, she had missed Nora more than she thought she would, and to come back and have her not remembering her, not running to her arms and not kissing her hurt in a way that perhaps she had never experienced before. 

“Will you sleep here tonight?” Nora asked with wide, pleading eyes. She wanted to feel Billie Dean’s warmth and relish in her pulses, her heartbeat, the sound of her breathing lungs. She wanted to close her eyes and think and think and think until she had thought all of the thoughts she had to think in her head, and then she wanted to think some more. She wanted to remember, and she knew she could only do that if Billie Dean stayed. Nora did not need to sleep, but she could rest silently beside Billie Dean, regardless. 

“Yes.” The answer didn’t need to be thought through. And then she paused. “I mean… if you want m-me to…” It all felt so weird so Billie; five days ago they were the best they had ever been, and now Nora didn’t even remember her name. She sniffed again, struggling to contain the tears that hastily made their way down her cheeks. It was like she had lost Nora, in a way. 

Nodding vociferously, Nora pulled the covers back and invited Billie Dean underneath them. She knew the Murder House tended to get cold, and she didn’t want Billie Dean to feel unwelcome in her mortal skin. The temperature didn’t bother any of the ghosts here, but it would bother the living human. Nora would provide to make her comfortable—surely that would help, surely that would make Billie Dean want to stay and not leave again. “Why—Why did you go?” she asked again, not entirely sure she had understood it the first time. 

Getting underneath the covers, Billie snuggled on them and turned to Nora, staring into the blue pools. The chilly house didn’t bother her as much as it did before, but with how she was feeling before it certainly had an effect on her. Billie Dean was happy Nora still remembered it, for she knew it was hard to after so long of being unbothered by the temperature. “I have a TV show,” she began quietly. The house was weirdly silent. “And they wanted to go to film an episode at the Amityville house… it’s in the state of New York. We discussed the idea of me going, together, and w-we decided I should go…”

_Well, clearly, we were wrong._ Nora chewed the inside of her cheek as she thought it over, what had happened. How had she agreed to such a thing? “Are you—Is it surprising, to us… that I forgot again?” She couldn’t remember her space in history. How long had they been together? How long had she gone without a spell of amnesia? Tate hadn’t told her, but she hadn’t asked. 

Billie Dean didn’t want to offend her, and so she nodded softly. “It’s the first time it has happened since we’ve been together.” It made her feel even worse; she should have thought better. Nora was always so frail underneath her hard shell, why did she think that was a good idea? Her chest felt heavy, and she took a deep breath to loosen it a little. 

“How long?” Nora asked. 

“A year.” _Saying it out loud makes me shiver._ It was a considerable time for Billie Dean. 

A year? A blink of an eye. Nora did not know how many years she had been trapped here in this hell, waking every morning and remembering nothing except the torn, ravaged body of her son and the dress she had hoped to bury him in. The nightmares would not leave her alone, and they pursued her into her daylight hours, as well. This existence was a nightmare. “I think I could live one hundred years and still forget them,” she admitted, “if I was distraught enough.” She could not name any of the ghosts who lived in the house, not really, except Tate, who was very special to her.

Offering a sad smile, Billie Dean looked away. _I want to go back in time._

Resting her cheek on Billie Dean’s shoulder, Nora closed her eyes and felt her warmth. She relished in this sensation, Billie Dean’s soft, adoring body. She could stay like this forever. She wished it was an option. “I am sorry I am not whole for you.” 

“You’re more than enough the way you are.” Billie Dean wrapped an arm around her and held her close. Hesitantly, she buried her nose into blonde hair and smelled it deeply. The faint citric smell invaded her nose. When they first started dating, Nora’s hair smelled like mold and dust, but she acquired a taste for unnecessary showers as their relationship grew. 

Mulling over the words, Nora’s blue eyes landed on the side of Billie Dean’s face. _Why are you here?_ she wanted to ask again. It didn’t make any sense. She was grateful… But why? Surely there was a choice in the matter. Why wouldn’t she have someone living? She licked her chapped lips and put an arm around Billie Dean’s waist. “Will you tell me about us?” she asked, since so far her questions about Billie Dean seemed to have struck a nerve. 

Billie Dean closed her eyes and for a second she could pretend it was all right. The hand over her waist soothed her. Taking a deep breath against blonde curls, she caressed Nora’s arm where her hand was. “Well… at first you didn’t like me very much,” she chuckled, and the smile settled on her lips. “You wanted me to go away, didn’t like that I smoked inside or at all… you said my name was weird and everything about me was wrong.” Billie Dean said that with adoration. It was the beginning of their relationship, after all. “You found it weird that I wear pants, and even weirder that I wasn’t attracted to men…” she began with. 

“I’m beginning to think the list of reasons you like me must be incredibly short,” Nora mused aloud. Was she both a bully _and_ an amnesiac? Well, sure, she found smoking incredibly unbecoming, and she thought Billie Dean had a man’s name, and she definitely would look a lot better in a skirt, but she hoped she was past those things now. “Why did you stay?”

Billie Dean couldn’t help but let out a laugh. Her eyes filled with tears right after. She had missed Nora _so much._ “I like you for a lot of things, actually.” She sniffed. Crying in front of Nora was by far the easiest way to do it. “Well, I quit smoking permanently for the first time in my life, you developed a strong love for sweatpants—they are _way_ more comfortable than all those complicated dresses you used to wear, you actually began really liking my name and also really liking women. We made it work, and each day we learned a thing or two about each other… I stayed because every day was a nice day with you.”

Nora’s brain started shuffling and skipping and breaking down. Billie Dean had dumped a lot of information on her that she fought to process. She knew she liked women, because she knew she liked Billie Dean and Billie Dean was a woman. She still wondered if that dumb name was short for something. But she didn’t dare ask now in the middle of this crisis. “Why on earth would I wear sweaty pants?” she asked. 

The innocent question caused Billie Dean to cry a little harsher; it reminded her of all the reasons she loved Nora. Her innocence and light was so different from the rest of the world… Billie Dean just wished her lover could go back to normal. If she could change anything in the world right now, that would be that. Which was a little selfish, if she stopped to _really_ think about. But she didn’t really think about it. “They are not _sweaty_ pants, they’re _sweat_ pants. It’s a loosen pair of pants made with a much more malleable fabric… people usually wear it to exercise or just relax at home.” Her free hand reached to wipe her falling tears away. 

“I think I quite like being a lady,” Nora reported loftily. She couldn’t imagine wearing something so hideous. She wanted to look _nice_ for Billie Dean and for herself, and that meant her gowns. “I prefer my figure in something that is presentable to you.” It wasn’t like her figure could ever possibly change, so she had to be happy with it the way it was, but she at least wanted the decorations she put on it to attract Billie Dean. 

“Oh trust me, you’re presentable to me no matter what you wear. _Especially_ naked.” A small smirk touched Billie Dean’s lips, and she was quick to amend it. “I mean—wearing pants doesn’t mean you’re not a lady…” Billie could feel herself getting so tired she was starting to talk nonsense stuff. “You’re beautiful to me, no matter what you wear. Even that awfully hard-to-take-off undergarment you wear.”

Nora had no idea what Billie Dean was talking about. She pursed her lips in confusion. “Fashion takes time,” she said. _The corset, maybe?_ She doubted those were a thing anymore. Nobody these days had the patience for such a thing. But Nora deeply valued her heritage, which was becoming increasingly vintage by the day. 

“That’s true,” Billie Dean nodded. She chewed on her bottom lip. “What else would you like to know about us, sugarcube?”

Blinking a few times, Nora tilted her head. “You’re tired now,” she observed. “I think I ought to let you rest.” 

It was true; Billie Dean was _exhausted._ She shook her head, though. “No, no… I want to stay with you.”

“You can sleep here,” Nora offered. “I won’t leave.” She cupped Billie Dean’s cheek in her frigid, phantom hand. The touch sent a sizzling through her head, inexplicable and raw. “I won’t let anyone get to you… I don’t need to sleep, you know,” she reminded Billie Dean, just in case she might have forgotten any of those minor details in the five days she had been gone. “Everyone else stays downstairs. It’s just us.” _What else would I do to make her comfortable?_ She wasn’t quite sure, so she decided to offer a litany of things. “I can play with your hair… Or rub your back, or your feet…” She wondered if Billie Dean wanted her to sing. She didn’t think so. 

Billie Dean thought about it over and over, leaning into the cold hand that alway warmed her soul. “I don’t think I can sleep,” she confessed lowly, staring into blue eyes now. “I should help you more… I should know what to do, I should.” Another tear slipped down. “Y-you’re my girlfriend, you’re my love… I… I _must_ know.” She shook her head and hastily wiped the tear away. “Stupid tear,” she murmured. “I don’t cry.”

Nora frowned. She didn’t understand this attachment that Billie Dean had to her. Did Billie Dean truly love her this much? She didn’t see herself as worthy of any of it. Her crystalline eyes gazed back at this woman, her familiar stranger, and she puckered her lips. “I don’t think there is anything anyone can do… It gets better with time.” Tate always managed to talk her out of it. He would tell her long, discursive stories of when he was young and hold her hands and get her to reenact how she had held him then. When he hugged her, she could always feel the things coming back. He wasn’t small anymore, but touching his adult body reminded her of all the things she had loved about him as a boy. “Tate helps,” she decided, saying it as an afterthought. “He makes it so I can remember… He tells me about him, and us, and what we used to do together. And he holds me.” She had held him once, but now, he was bigger than she was. It was what she had always wanted for Thaddeus and would never get. 

_It gets better with time…_ But Billie Dean had never been a fan of waiting. Perhaps it was childish of her, to want everything in her hands when _she_ wanted it, instant gratification. Perhaps she couldn’t handle frustration, or had never been needed to… she doubted that. Billie shook her head. She had done all of that, she had told Nora about her, and about them, and about everything… maybe she needed to be loved? Physically, rawly loved. She sat up gently. “You know,” she began, looking down at Nora. “You always loved it when I stroke your hair…”

Round blue eyes found Billie Dean’s. She shook her head. “I don’t like my head to be touched.” The wound there was too obvious and frightening for her to expose it to anyone. She tried to put her hair up around it so it wasn’t visible, but she didn’t want anyone else to know it was there, especially not Billie Dean. _Does she already know?_ Nora was afraid to ask, just in case she didn’t. 

“I know,” Billie Dean’s voice was soft and gentle. She grabbed her pillow and put it on her lap, patting it. “But after some time, you began allowing me to stroke your hair. I know what’s there, and I don’t mind. Come here.” She tapped the pillow again. “Let me show you.”

Stiff as a board, Nora wanted to resist, but Billie Dean was so convincing, and she was afraid she would leave if she didn’t acquiesce to her requests. So she slowly, gingerly folded herself down over the bed with her head resting on Billie Dean’s shoulder. 

Snuggling closer to Nora, Billie Dean wrapped her arm around her waist and held her close like she always did. Her other hand—the opposite side—reached to cup Nora’s cheek. She caressed the curvature of her cheekbone with her thumb, faces close. It was like holding the whole world with one hand. Without thinking much, she leaned down and rubbed their noses as she always did, for Nora always giggled and it warmed her. Then, she kissed her gently on the lips, lingering there a little as her hand crawled up and began stroking her blonde hair, not daring to go close to the wound. She took a deep breath. 

Nora wanted to draw back at the sudden, intimate intrusion, but it made her mind crackle again, and she blinked into a memory of some sort, the faces hazy but definitely Billie Dean. Billie Dean was being so forward with her. It was frightening, but it was good. She licked her lips and nestled closer, not feeding into the kiss but not breaking it, either. 

Hesitantly and in fear of scaring Nora, Billie Dean pulled away. She rested her head on top of hers and stroked her hair the way she knew Nora loved; her fingertips were soft and gentle on her head, massaging the places she tensed up and easing them one by one, never once getting close to the bullet wound. 

Nora’s eyes fluttered closed. _Relax… Think…_ She could think now, if she focused on it. Her brain didn’t keep skipping. She could vaguely remember the curl of cigarette smoke from around Billie Dean’s lips and fingertips. She recalled the first time she saw her and thought to herself, _Those nails are so bawdy, they belong on a hooker,_ and the first time she forgot Billie Dean’s name and called her Bobby Jean. If she focused on the scraping of those nails against her scalp now, she could dimly remember the buckets of paint. _Charles had this house modeled in blue after my eyes!_ she had complained. _Why must you tarnish his work?_ She had asked it, then, like the house had not already been long tarnished by age and weather. But Billie Dean had said she liked the yellow to make the room feel more sunny, and Nora had reluctantly lifted a paintbrush to help her as the pale color grew on her by the day.

Different than Nora, Billie Dean didn’t want to think much; she was scared to do so, to remember all her favorite memories only to have the chance to be the only one remembering them. She focused on how her hand moved, on how she caressed Nora, how she took care of her. Nora was very particular at what she liked, and Billie had learned it well. Her fingertips moved down, massaging the base of her neck. _It hurts an awful lot when you touch it there,_ Nora had said once, _but it alleviates the ache._ And so she always remembered to touch it there, to massage it and to focus on each part of it. 

Nora’s whole neck stiffened at the flush of pain, and she almost asked Billie Dean to stop, but she clenched her jaw and persevered through the pain. There was a sort of relief available at the end. She could remember the nights they had spent together like this if she tried, now, focusing on Billie Dean’s hands. 

Billie Dean took a deep breath and moved to the other side of Nora’s head. She massaged it just the same. “Don’t clench your jaw, honey,” she said softly. “You’ll get headaches again…”

“It hurts,” Nora whimpered. She buried her face in Billie Dean’s chest. “I don’t want you to stop.” 

Billie Dean held her closer, kissing her head. “It’s alright.” She found a special point in the base of Nora’s neck and pressed it _hard._ She knew it was going to hurt for a second, but then it was going to soothe all the pain for a while. 

Nora whimpered a thin sound. She bit her lip, afraid to speak or move. “I hate that I forget,” she whimpered. “I—I get so confused, I want to remember, because I love you…” Her lips trembled. Each place Billie Dean touched her made her a little brighter, a little lighter. She adored it. “Marlboros,” she remembered aloud in a whisper as the flash of memory shone at her. She had the box open and dumped the cigarettes down the toilet and flushed them. “You used to smoke Marlboros.” 

Billie Dean smiled sadly. She wanted to help her remember, too. She wanted things to go back to how they were. She wanted _her_ Nora back. “I did,” she chuckled softly at the same memory. “You hated them.” Her hands moved down to Nora’s shoulders, and she pulled away to sit straight. “Come here, sit between my legs.” 

Uncharacteristically obedient, Nora pushed herself back and leaned back against Billie Dean. She didn’t want to hold her head up, for she felt unusually sleepy. _She makes me comfortable enough that I can sleep._ She never slept. Perhaps that was part of the reason behind her brain being so broken, that it had to blot out large portions of her life just to keep her functioning. It never got a rest from her chronic overthinking. She rested her hand on Billie Dean’s knee and remembered the times she had touched there before, trying to bring comfort or even pleasure—thinking such a thing caused her to blush. “We made love for the first time on the sofa,” she recalled quietly, “until the rotten wood caved… then we put the cushions on the floor.” She remembered distinctly because she had protested and insisted that she would _not_ make love to _anyone_ on the _floor_ , and besides, the way they were doing it was all wrong, didn’t Billie Dean know this was just to make babies and they had no use doing it when they couldn’t do that? And she had made eye contact with Billie Dean and felt herself melt a little on the inside and fallen back onto the cushions, more blissful than ever and without any argument needed from her partner. 

Billie Dean hugged Nora from behind, caressing the soft of her stomach. It was indeed unusual to have Nora so easy to do the things she asked her to. Leaning closer, Billie Dean kissed Nora’s neck on the place she had previously pressed at, lingering there for a little. “We did,” her voice was a raspy from sleep and from the low volume. She couldn’t contain the small smile on her lips as she realized Nora was starting to remember things. “You didn’t really want to go to the floor… but we went, anyways, and cuddled there until the next morning…” With her fingertips still gentle, she massaged Nora’s ribcage; she knew she was one to tension up a lot. 

With a sheepish shudder, Nora twitched and wiggled away from her hands. “Stop, that tickles!” she protested sharply, worrying her lower lip. It was strange for Billie Dean to get so close to her breasts, both strange and new and still familiar. Her corset was incredibly tight. She found it hard to breathe deeply. 

Billie Dean instantly took her hands away, taken aback by Nora’s sharp words. Then, she reminded it was just Nora, and she always needed some encouragement to loosen up. “Oh, come on, sugarcube.” Teasingly, she tickled her sides, feeling the corset. 

“I don’t like it,” she said, swatting Billie Dean’s hands away. Her chest was tight. She was sleepy. She wanted to relax.

Giggling, Billie Dean stopped. “Alright, alright. Come here.” She pulled Nora close again, kissing the base of her neck on the same place she had before. Her hands caressed her sides slowly now, up and down. “I’m sorry,” she said after a long pause. 

Pursing her pouty little lips, Nora griped, “You should be.” She slanted her eyes away from Billie Dean with a huffed sigh of indignation. She was a noble lady! She couldn’t succumb to such silly things. She was required to act with gravitas that brought grace upon her family. 

Billie Dean held herself not to laugh. Nora was acting like she did back when they started dating, and seeing it now after everything, was a little funny. Caressing her sides still, Billie Dean kissed the other side of Nora’s neck. “You’re cute when you act like that,” she whispered. 

“I’m not _cute_ —” Nora had never been so infantilized. Was this how women acted these days? Was this what they liked? “Hmph.” She stuck her nose in the air, infuriated. “You’re _cute_ ,” she grumbled back. 

_Does she understand what I mean?_ Billie Dean chuckled. “Well, thank you. You’re not one to use these words.” She paused. “Do you know what cute means?”

“I’m not a kitten or a bunny. I’m a grown woman.” Nora was pouty now. She rolled onto her side to sigh dramatically. “The world has gone to waste… Women enjoy being infantilized and condescended to. You know, in my day, we worked to be considered human. We didn’t simply settle for being _cute_ . I had to fight for my right to vote for President Calvin Coolidge. Men called us _cute_ then, _cute_ girls who belonged indoors and domestic. They had no respect for the suffragette!”

Billie Dean almost wanted to get shocked, but she knew Nora. _We’re back at the not-cute pouts._ It was still a little cute, though. “Wow, calm down.” Billie Dean still held her close. She leaned to kiss her cheek, not being able to hold herself even if the moment wasn’t the best; she missed her. “Nowadays, cute has nothing to do with it. Strong women can be cute, _you_ just said _I_ was cute. Don’t you think I’m a strong woman?” She arched her eyebrows. “I have lived alone since I was nineteen, have my own TV show, my own house and need no man.”

“I was insulting you, not making a comment on your attractiveness or your independence.” _Am I dating a moron?_ Nora wondered. No, she wouldn’t do that. But then again, her standards couldn’t be very high, given that her choices were generally limited to what lived in the Murder House and apparently this woman. But still, she wouldn’t be attracted to someone who was a complete idiot. “Children are cute. Women are beautiful. One will allow you to pinch its rosy cheeks and the other will stab you with a hat pin. There is a difference.” 

Arching her eyebrows again, Billie Dean reached for Nora and cupped both of her cheeks, pinching them. “You are so beautiful!” She laughed. 

Growling in frustration, Nora batted her hands off of her face. “Cease, you bearcat!” she snapped, her brows drawing together in a furious line. “I don’t know why I like you!” Indeed, the mystery was not growing any more clear. Did Billie Dean enjoy harassing her? Nora spat like a bothered cat. 

Now that hurt. Billie Dean pulled her hands away, deciding that perhaps it was a little too much. They were in a state where Nora still didn’t learn she enjoyed Billie Dean’s jokes. “I’m sorry…” She frowned. 

“Hmph,” huffed another dramatic sigh from Nora. She glared through narrowed eyes at Billie Dean, resting her cheek on the pillow. Why was Billie Dean doing this to her? She was already distraught at the loss of her memories. She didn’t want to be teased and mocked. She needed a compassionate hand to understand her. Her eyes slanted down at the pillowcase. She didn’t know if she liked this fabric or not… It smelled so strange. But she liked the colors. She thought she had picked the colors, maybe. 

Billie Dean bit her lower lip. She had really upset Nora, and she knew that by the way she looked down and grew quiet. “Hey…” She slowly snuggled closer again, hugging her from behind like they were before. “I’m really sorry,” her voice was low, honest. “I got nervous…”

“You said you weren’t afraid of me,” Nora mumbled. 

“Not because of _that…”_ Billie Dean mumbled back, pulling her closer, hugging her tighter. “But because I’m scared _of losing you…”_

“So you make fun of me instead?” Nora’s tummy stiffened. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be pulled on right now. 

“No… when I feel comfortable with someone I tend to act goofy. I have to work on that, and I have already since we started dating.” Billie Dean had never meant to make fun of her. 

Continuing to sulk, Nora heaved an exasperated breath. Her snit would not pass so easily. She was wounded and wanted Billie Dean to know about it. How dare her lover take her feelings to be so inconsequential! Charles had made the world revolve around her feelings. Nora was very accustomed to being the absolute center of attention in any relationship. The only relationship she had allowed the spotlight to be taken off of her was the one she had with Thaddeus. She had learned how painful it was to love something or someone more than she loved herself. It had happened with Thaddeus, and now it had happened with Billie Dean. _I remember more, now, though._ She could vaguely remember their first meeting, and then their second one, too, when they had shared a bottle of wine and she realized she was attracted to Billie Dean in an unusual way for the first time. The third time… She couldn’t remember that time. That wasn’t the time they made love. It was several times after that when they made love. _She probably doesn’t remember each instance we’ve been together, either._

Billie Dean hugged Nora again and went back at caressing her sides. Her head rested against her back, and she sighed. “I love you so much, Nora… I’m sorry I haven’t been able to express it now the way you’d expect me to.”

Nora kicked the blankets off of herself. She was getting hot. She was so used to being cold, everything piled on top of her was making her hot. The warm, relaxed feeling had left, and she needed the cool to think. “I… I have not yet loved something where I haven’t been hurt.” Her tongue darted across her dry lips. “I am beginning to think that love hurts, and that I don’t like it very much.” 

Squeezing her eyes, Billie Dean shook her head. “That’s not true… you’ve said so, last week before I had to leave, how happy you were.” Billie Dean felt like pure shit. _I suck._ She sniffed quietly, sighing to herself. Her hands reached lower, she caressed Nora’s hips hoping that her touches could do what her words didn’t. 

“Perhaps I was happy last week. I am not today.” At the feeling of Billie Dean’s hands on her hips, Nora rolled over and gazed into Billie Dean’s eyes. “I am happy you are back. But I am afraid of what happens when you leave again. Do you understand?”

Billie Dean sat up straight as Nora turned around, hands still caressing her hips. Another sigh left her lips. That was all too much, and Billie Dean began considering what she could say. “Why would I leave again knowing it would hurt you?”

“Surely you’ll need to eat eventually…” Nora’s brows bowed together. “I know you don’t like it here… I know it’s too loud for you. You’ll want peace, away from me, soon. And I don’t want to lose what we have.” She averted her eyes. She was proud she had remembered so much. But she couldn’t make it perfect. She couldn’t make herself what she had been, before. Billie Dean was hurting because of her; she didn’t need to be a psychic to know that. “I am sorry,” she said. “I want to do what’s best, but I don’t know what’s best.” She was so uncertain. 

Cupping Nora’s cheeks, Billie Dean caressed the cold skin with her thumbs, soft and gentle. She had never hated herself more for making a wrong decision. “Before it all happened, we were alright,” her voice shook a little. It was unfamiliar to her, to feel so weak and miserable. “I left only to buy food and work… I was living here. I’m used to all the noise, it follows me everywhere I go.” Her eyes fell. “I was planning on buying the house…”

“Is that still what you want?” Nora asked. What if she had ruined everything? 

The answer was a strong, certain, “Yes.” Billie Dean stared into Nora’s blue hues again. “Yes. Yes, it is. I love you, Nora.”

Nora blinked. She smiled, and she nestled against Billie Dean’s soft, warm body. _I am safe._ “I love you, too… Bobby Jean,” she teased lightly. 

Billie Dean wrapped her arms around Nora’s body and held her tight. She was certain she would never let go of her. A small chuckle left her lips. “I would do anything for you.”

Tilting her head, Nora thought long and hard. She would have made the same promise, but the truth was, she couldn’t do very much. She was trapped here in this place. Billie Dean had all of the power. Nora had nothing but hope and love. “I hope I can always keep you safe.” Nothing in the Murder House would ever threaten Billie Dean as long as Nora was around—and Nora couldn’t go anywhere, so they were set. She licked her lips. “I… I wish I had more to offer you, but I love you, and I hope one day I can give you as much as you give me.” 

Billie Dean searched for Nora’s eyes, fingers tangling in her hair and stroking the blonde locks. She shook her head. “You hold so much wisdom inside… you’ve seen so many things and talked to so many people. You’re light and purity in your own way, and you make me so _happy._ What else could you give me, Nora? What else could I possibly ask for?” 

“Someone who can pop their own popcorn in your fancy plastic box machine?” Nora guessed. 

Another chuckle left Billie Dean’s lips, a light one. “Nothing you can not learn, sugarcube.” 

“Someone who can actually go on dates with you?” When Nora was alive, she never would’ve settled for a lover who _literally_ couldn’t leave their house. Granted, she hadn’t exactly been a very patient person in her life—nor was she in her death—but she couldn’t imagine a beautiful woman like Billie Dean having such incredibly low standards. 

“You can leave every Halloween,” Billie Dean reminded gently. Her mind was set, and she had come to terms with it already. Nora was the woman she wanted to spend the rest of her life—and afterlife—with. 

“Wow, once a year. You’re right, we’re practically celebrities.” Nora sighed. She was down on herself. “I’m glad you are here. I don’t deserve you.” 

Billie Dean frowned. “Honey… you’re more than I deserve.” She leaned to kiss Nora’s lips. 

Nora tilted her head. “If I am more than you deserve, you must have done some quite terrible things in your life.” 

“Stop putting yourself down, sugarcube.” Billie Dean sighed. 

“I wasn’t putting myself down, I was putting you down.” 

Billie Dean rolled her eyes. She kissed her on the lips again, cupping her cheeks. “Shut up,” she murmured against them.

Leaning into the soft kiss, Nora rolled over, landing on top of Billie Dean and spreading herself out. She enthusiastically wrapped her arms around her neck and smiled into her kiss with a giggle. _I feel so light all of a sudden…_ She had gone from morose to giddy in a matter of seconds. _Is this normal for me?_ She looked up to Billie Dean, glee and worry mingling in her eyes. Did kissing Billie Dean usually make her so happy? _If so, I would like to never stop._ She broke the kiss and licked her lips. “Um, excuse me, it seems I lost control of my actions for a minute.” 

Billie Dean was taken by surprise, but she definitely didn’t mind. She wrapped her hands around Nora’s body and kept on kissing her, chuckling as she pulled away. She licked her lips as well, opening a big smile. “I like when you do so.” Her hand slipped down to Nora’s ass and squeezed it teasingly. 

Nora didn’t move from on top of her. She draped over Billie Dean’s body with a happy sigh. “I think I’ll be okay,” she decided in a whisper. “I think we’ll be okay.” The rest would come with time, and what she couldn’t remember, she would replace with new memories. It was not a tragedy. She would recover. She would survive. 

“I think so, too.” Billie Dean kissed her forehead, closing her eyes. She took a deep breath, finally feeling herself relaxing. Her body got heavy all of a sudden. 

Resting her head on Billie Dean’s shoulder, Nora gave a quiet sigh. Billie Dean would sleep, and Nora would cherish her like this until she awoke. Perhaps she would manage to sleep herself, or at least lull herself into a feeling of safety and unconsciousness. “Goodnight, Billie Dean.” 

“Goodnight, sugarcube,” Billie Dean murmured before her breath grew heavy and small snores left her lips. With her arms wrapped securely around Nora, she was safe to sleep. 

…

The next morning, the room was even more yellow than it had been the day before. Nora lay stretched out on her back, admiring the way they had redone it. She loved Billie Dean’s portrait and their stupid, motivational posters, and she missed her magic glass box that she had destroyed. She wanted to take more pictures of Billie Dean while she was asleep. _I don’t know if I could’ve remembered how to work it, anyway._ But she would’ve tried. Nora rolled onto her side, kissed Billie Dean’s forehead, and then tucked her into bed neatly as she stood. _I’ll make her breakfast._ She didn’t know how much, if any, food they had in the Murder House, but she could figure it out. 

She trotted down the stairs on silent, bare feet and entered the kitchen. The cold box—it had a name, but she couldn’t remember it right now—was turned on and working. She opened it and took out the carton of eggs. Then she looked at the stove. It was far newer than any stove she had operated before. “Tate?” she called out as she found a tomato and a green pepper and an onion and began to chop them up. 

“Yes?” he asked, appearing behind her. He placed a hand on her hips. “Are you making breakfast for her?” She nodded. “Even though she left you?” 

“She came back. It was only for a few days… It’s not her fault my brain isn’t working.” Nora kept chopping up the vegetables. She placed the knife on the countertop and went to the fridge for a carrot—there was one. She chopped it into nice slivers. “Will you help me turn on this stove?”

Tate’s face set angrily. “I don’t want to help her. She hurt you. She never should have left. I told her it was a bad idea.” Nora waved him off. “You deserve better. You deserve someone who will stay forever,” he continued. “You shouldn’t keep entertaining her. She’ll get bored. She’ll leave again.” The hair on the back of Nora’s neck stood up. She didn’t like the way Tate spoke of Billie Dean… but it also placed anxiety inside of her. What happened if he was right, if Billie Dean left her? It would all happen again, the amnesia, the anguish. “I can’t stand to keep putting you back together when other careless people have broken you. I have to take care of you. I want her to stay.”

“She’s going to stay,” Nora promised. “She told me everything. She’s planning on buying the house and working to keep everything running for us. She’s going to take care of me.”

He wasn’t convinced. The furious lines in his face set. “What happens when she is tired of you? What if she decides she wants a family?” This one set a cold ice pick into Nora’s heart. That was something she had always craved… a family. It was also the one thing she couldn’t give to Billie Dean. If Billie Dean wanted to raise children, this wasn’t a healthy place to do it. “What if she gets too old for you? She’s already much older than you are. You’re never going to change, Nora. What if she decides she wants someone her own age? Someone who will grow old with her?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Nora said in a short, brittle voice. “If you won’t show me how to turn on the stove, Violet will.” With an irate huff, Tate flipped on the griddle, and Nora cracked a few raw eggs into a pan and put it there. “Thank you.” She stirred the eggs and, once they started to cook up, mixed in the vegetables. Tate vanished. She didn’t notice the knife missing from the countertop. 

Even though the curtains were new and high quality, a tiny ray of sunlight peeked through them and stopped right at Billie Dean’s eyes. With a groan, she turned to the side. The bed was empty and it made it hard for her to go back to sleep. _Did she forget again?_ Billie Dean’s heart peeked up in speed with the thought. She pushed herself up, sitting straight in bed and rubbing her eyes. The yellow was so beautiful, so utterly _them._ The corners of Billie Dean’s lips lifted up, but before she could appreciate the peaceful moment, strong, furious steps invaded her ears. Her eyes opened wide as Tate stood at the doorway, anger dripping from his body and a knife in his hand. Billie Dean shivered; the energy nearly caused her to suffocate. “Where’s Nora?” her voice shook and her body shrank. Everything was a little foggy. 

Tate scowled down at her. “She’s downstairs. She doesn’t want you to leave again.” He clutched the knife in his hand, knuckles white with the pressure with which he grasped the handle of the knife. “She’s making you breakfast. She trusts you. I don’t trust you.” His dark eyes viewed her with contempt. “I won’t let you hurt her again. You don’t get to leave just because Nora is too good-hearted to stop you… I want you to stay.” 

With her eyes opening even wider, Billie Dean shook her head frantically. She wasn’t one to be scared of the other side, but she also knew when respect was needed, and Tate wasn’t one to joke around. “I won’t leave.” Her voice continued to tremble, eyes blinking in order to keep herself grounded in reality. “I’m buying the house.”

"A lot of people have bought the house. A lot of people have sold the house. It won't stop you when you decide to leave… when you decide to hurt her again." He loomed over Billie Dean, drawing nearer to her, a panther deciding where to strike. Where was his prey the weakest? "I don't let anyone hurt Nora. Nora never let anyone hurt me. She wants you to stay. I have to make sure you stay." 

Perhaps trying to talk her way out of this situation wasn’t the best. Billie Dean squeezed her eyes together and _screamed._ She screamed louder than she had ever done before, calling for Nora repeatedly. Nora was the only one who would understand her, who could talk with Tate and make him listen. 

At the sound of Billie Dean’s scream, Nora turned on her heel and fled the cooling stove with the beautiful omelets she had perfected for them to share. She carried the oily, hot pan in one hand as she dashed up the stairs—she couldn’t remember how to transmute like the other spirits, and she knew now was not the time to try to figure it out. Barging into the bedroom, she held out the pan and walloped Tate across the back of the head. The noise echoed. The stench of burnt hair filled the room. “Ow! What the hell?”

“Get away from her.” Nora held out the still-sizzling pan. “Put the knife down. Get away from her. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I was helping you.” Tate touched the back of his head where she had smacked him. A mortal would have been knocked out and bleeding, but he was no mortal. “She’s going to leave again! She’s going to make you sad again! You need her to stay, and I can make sure of that!” 

“That’s not for you to decide.” Tate reached out to her. “Go away, Tate!” His face wrenched up in pain. “Go away! Go away!” He vanished. 

It all happened too fast in front of Billie Dean’s eyes. With all the anger inside Tate, and now Nora, everything was slow and her brain was even foggier. She shrank herself as little as she could at the harsh sound of the pan smacking against Tate’s head, legs clamped to her chest and arms around it. Billie Dean never thought Nora would be able to actually hurt Tate, and seeing what she had just done to protect _her_ , was kinda priceless. She would have made a sarcastic comment hadn’t she been so scared. As Tate ran away, things got a little bit clearer. Billie Dean’s body shook like she had been dropped in ice on a cold night, and now she could realize the tears that began making their way down her cheeks. 

Nora dropped the sizzling pan. It clanged on the floor. "Billie Dean," she whispered. She gave a soft smile, shuffling across the floor toward her, and she brushed her cold hand against Billie Dean's. "Are you okay?" 

Brown hues glued on Nora. She managed to give her a nod, shaky fingers wrapping around hers. Billie Dean’s chest _jumped_ inside her delicate blouse, and she couldn’t quite speak yet, for she felt like her heart was inside her mouth. 

Lifting her eyes up to Billie Dean's, Nora stroked her cheeks. "Hey… I'm sorry…" She frowned. She tilted her head. "I'm so sorry. I thought he was safe." 

Tilting her head, Billie Dean leaned onto the touch. She closed her eyes, focusing on calming her heart down. Once she knew it was safe to speak without starting bawling or shaking again, she finally croaked out a tiny “It’s okay.” Her eyes opened again, and she looked at blue hues, taking a deep breath. “I love you.”

Nora's azure eyes flickered. "I love you, too." _Maybe I shouldn't ask her to stay._ Was it selfish of her? She couldn't ask Billie Dean to be in danger for her. This was someone she loved. She couldn't have people threatening Billie Dean for her. "Maybe—Maybe you shouldn't stay, for awhile… Maybe you'd be safer." She would forget again. But if it meant keeping Billie Dean safe… she could lose her memories. She wouldn't remember why Billie Dean had left. She wouldn't remember why it hurt. But that was a sacrifice she was willing to make. 

The idea sounded anything but rational to Billie Dean. Everytime she came back, she’d have Tate angrier and angrier with her. She had to prove to Tate, and to Nora especially, that she was _willing_ to make things right. She shook her head. “I’m staying,” she said, voice weak but tone firm. “I’m buying the house, and I’m staying. I’m not gonna make the same mistake twice… you have no idea of what I felt yesterday, Nora.”

"But what if he hurts you again?" Nora's eyes shimmered. "Maybe… maybe you shouldn't come back." She would never forgive herself if Tate or someone else hurt Billie Dean. It was true that Billie Dean would continue to age, and Nora never would. Her desires could change, and Nora's never could. Billie Dean could move, could get pregnant, could die suddenly in a terrible accident outside the home and Nora would never be the wiser. Perhaps humans and spirits were not meant to know each other in this way. "Maybe you should… take some time, and find someone you like, and be—be normal." 

A sad laugh escaped Billie Dean’s lips. She shook her head, reaching to caress Nora’s hair. “Sugarcube, I’m not normal… I see and feel things no one else does.” Her thumb was tender as it passed between the golden locks. She paused. And, after a few seconds, she added, “I’m not giving up,” once again, her voice was gentle. “I don’t… I don’t mind if I die in here,” she confessed, for she knew how abnormal that was. 

Eyes averting, Nora nodded slowly. She couldn't resist. She couldn't argue. It was Billie Dean's life. "This isn't a very good place to die," she admitted. Was that what she wanted for Billie Dean? To die here, with her? _I don't want to be alone._ But she didn't want Billie Dean to suffer along with her, either. "And what if—what if something happens, and you aren't here when it happens? Or—what happens in ten years? Or twenty? When you're old enough to be my mother, or more?" Tate had planted a lot of doubts in her mind. She hated to admit it, but she was concerned. She licked her lips. "What if you change your mind? And you want children, or you want to live in New York City, or you want to travel and see the world?"

Billie Dean had thought about all of that months ago. She knew the price she was paying to be with Nora, and she paid it gladly. Leaning closer, Billie Dean cupped Nora’s cheeks and stared into her beautiful blue eyes. “I can see the whole world when I look into your eyes. Age doesn’t matter to me, but if you think I won’t look so attractive when I’m older, I can try and fill myself with botox,” she teased lightly. On a more serious note, she continued, “I don’t want children. I never did.” 

_I’m going to think it’s quite odd when you are old enough to be my grandmother._ Nora didn’t say it for fear of being regarded as shallow. “What’s botox?” she asked instead, for clarification, since Billie Dean said it like a bad thing, and Nora didn’t want Billie Dean to be filling herself with anything that wasn’t food or, occasionally, Nora’s fingers. 

Another chuckle left Billie Dean’s lips. “It’s a procedure you can have. They put something under your skin and it paralyzes the muscles, making you look younger. It takes the expressive lines away,” she explained. 

“That sounds terrible. I think I should like you the way you are.” _At least while you don’t look like you could be mistaken for my mother._ Nora nibbled on her bottom lip. “I’m afraid for you,” she said as an afterthought. It was a scary world, the outside. It was dangerous. The Murder House was dangerous, too, but Nora knew how to handle those dangers. The outside—she couldn’t protect Billie Dean from the outside. And if something happened… Billie Dean could never come back. She would just disappear. _Would I rather that happen, or would I prefer her to be trapped here with me forever?_ She didn’t know. She didn’t want anyone else to suffer in this godforsaken place for eternity, especially not Billie Dean. 

A frown touched Billie Dean’s plucked brows. “Afraid for me?” she repeated, hoping it made sense. It didn’t. “Afraid of what, sugarcube?” 

“Afraid…” Nora sucked her lower lip. “Afraid you could be hurt. Out there. Or here. The world could take you from me, and you wouldn’t be able to come back. Afraid you’ll die here and you’ll regret it and it’ll be too late. Afraid you won’t die here and I’ll never know what happened to you.” 

“I’ll make sure we find a solution for those problems, alright?” Billie Dean leaned to kiss her cold forehead. “The modern world has many technologies, I’m sure we’ll find something to ease your worries. Trust me on this one.”

“Is there a technology to fix you if you die when you aren’t here?” 

“Not a technology, but I’m studying things that might come in handy.” 

Nora started to ask, but she stopped herself. Some things she didn’t want to know. She trusted Billie Dean could handle the modern world, but Nora couldn’t. Some things she preferred the old way. “I—I made breakfast,” she whispered. “That’s where the pan came from.” 

“Y _ou_ made _me_ breakfast?” Billie Dean asked in a teasing, surprised tone. “Aren’t you the best?” She leaned and kissed Nora full on the lips, happy the conversation was done. 

“I wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed.” _Instead, I surprised you with a murderer in bed._ Nora swallowed a dry lump in her throat. “It’s probably cold now, though.” 

“I like cold food.” It wasn’t a lie, although it sounded a little weird when saying it out loud. “Thank you, baby.” She pecked Nora again. 

A grin spread across Nora’s face in spite of the context of what had happened between them. In spite of everything, Billie Dean still managed to make her smile. _Maybe that’s why I like her. Maybe that’s why I keep her around._ Nora had very few reasons to smile in this life. If Billie Dean gave her just one… it was selfish, but Nora wanted to keep her. She wrapped her hand around Billie Dean’s and helped tug her to her feet, out of the bed, anxious to wrap up her fingers in that of her forever. She led the way downstairs.


End file.
